La petite flamme
by Hushabye
Summary: The Joker before he becomes the Joker. This melody that would not leave him alone. This strength he found in a weakness. This sanity. Dark themes. OneShot.


_... 'La petite flamme' is French for "The Little Flame," which **technically **has nothing to do with the story, but I thought I'd let you interpret why I used it. (: ...  
And on that note, hello all! This was a random story idea I had whilst listening to the band Android Lust. It will only be this one chapter, so don't get too excited. :P  
This is the Joker before he becomes the Joker, so, as always, expect the unexpected as well as some dark, disturbing, and slightly sexual themes (but not necessarily the way you think... I'm getting tired of all of the stories on here that talk about him "falling in love." We all know the woman he "falls in love" with is merely a self insert with a potentially different name, possibly different looks, and, maybe, a different age).  
To be on the safe side, and for obvious reasons, this little vignette is rated M.  
Enjoy. (:_

La petite flamme

A melody played in his mind. He could not remember the name of the tune, nor the words. He only knew the score. Maybe that was what caused something to become unhinged inside of him, swinging loose from a vulnerable arm like a flap of bloody skin, the tendons having been cut by glass. He saw her bereft face attached to the music, the ligaments reacting harmoniously.

She had been the First.

The malady that had splattered over her body was the high point of the hymn. It was beautiful, and he had choked his eyes shut, tasting the liquid emotion. So much suffering. He had savored it, taking his time as he swallowed her pride.

He had gradually conceived how sexually aroused he was, lost in the moments; the turn of her head as it snapped in half, exposing her thoughts that he had stolen from her. She had been so open with him. She did not know of any other way to be. He was charming; he was handsome; he was clean; he was smiling. She had revealed to him that she loved a man who could take a joke as well as he could tell one. He had laughed, a sublime tone accompanying the song that had played in the foreground. He could not understand how a person could be so foolish and puerile; how anyone found that appealing; how anyone got away with it. Why hadn't his mother taught him that? The unmistakable odor of stupidity? His father had brainwashed him; tutored him in everything else. He had seen no difference.

The woman he had met at the bar filled to the brim with meager, worthless inhabitants had thanked him; she needed someone (anyone) to talk to. They then "exchanged numbers" like the pathetic human beings they were, and he had "promised" to call; a promise always toyed with and maimed. She had left the pub with new and hopeful feelings. He could smell them, buried within her musky perfume.

He had made an unconscious decision to follow her, a secrete phantom. She cocked her flowing scalp. There was trust in a smile. He took her down; gently, wholly, uninviting. She had screamed like his mother had when she and his father had sex; the sound lasting a minute fraction. He could still hear them through the walls, panting and wheezing with fervor. He was a virgin at twenty seven. Sex had never intrigued nor stimulated him. When he was sixteen, he had stumbled upon some of his father's pornographic magazines. The women all looked the same; felt the same; tasted the same. They were drenched in blood and each others' intestines, "clawing" their way up. Only then did they allure him. Only then they seemed intrinsic; not fantasies, slowly killing each other. He had masturbated afterward, preferring the hard surface. He was lost for a time.

After her spirit had evaporated and perished, he swayed back to his apartment, fluctuating his arms like a man who had no plan. He had concentrated on himself that late night, early morning. He envisioned her pain and internal vomit. He thought about the way he had taken that small, pink contact mirror out of her purse and how he had set it up at the crown of her head. She had not been in the alley. She was in her own apartment. He did not want to be inconsiderate of her loved ones' wishes.

He memorized his features in the glass windows, staring at the insignificant purple glow that passing cars' headlights made; the purple haze the sky had molded. His green walls had cast shadows. He felt arcane and powerful. He had controlled someone (anyone) so easily, it was (a)pathetic. She was dead.

The haunting, precious melody had filled his brain as he imagined hers, left in the alleyway so whomever would find her lying on her mattress could only see her hollow mind. There was nothing as sweet as salt. The iron in blood. Her flesh in his teeth.

He had rewound the song, and never left home without it.


End file.
